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‘And the decorations will last until Twelfth Night for our musical soirée.’ Leonora turned to Mrs Mildmay. ‘You and the Reverend will certainly join us for Christmas dinner and for Epiphany, won’t you?’

Christmas was like every other Christmas in the village of Hasterleigh, but this year there was added excitement and speculation. The Reverend and the curate, with the help of Mrs Mildmay, were much involved with religious services and ministering to the flock. Lord Rokeby caused a stir on Christmas morning by turning up to matins. The Rokeby pew had not been used for a decade and he sat in brooding solitude, Achille by his side.

Leonora was not there to see him as she had attended the midnight service so she could spend Christmas morning helping Nanny P and Cook prepare the feast for the dinner that evening. They had asked Charlotte and the Mildmays, Mr Fopling and the widow Mrs Chetwode and her daughter, Jane, who had recently moved into the Grove and were not well-acquainted yet with the community.

Richard Fopling also caused a ripple of surprise and some gossip by acquiring a dog himself. Miss Vazey, the daughter of the family whose bitch had whelped, had asked the curate to care for the puppy that no one wanted. Little Grace – for that’s what he called her – was the runt of the litter, small and easily bullied by the bigger puppies. Leonora came upon her, trotting faithfully behind Mr Fopling as he went from house to house bearing seasonal victuals to the neediest parishioners. ‘A dog! You too, Mr Fopling?’ She waylaid him by the market cross and bent to ruffle the puppy’s ears.

The curate’s face registered wry surprise. ‘Indeed, Miss Appleby, she has brought such grace to my life.’

‘I thought you had wanted to be free of worldly preoccupations. What made you change your mind?’

‘Vazey’s daughter is a persuasive young woman.’ He looked down at the small creature sitting at his feet and smiled. Leonora knew the Vazey family well. They were one of the Manor’s best tenant farmers and Ernest Vazey, an intelligent and hard-working man. His daughter, Rose, was a quiet, self-contained girl with a gentle demeanour and vivid amber eyes. ‘As you know, Miss Vazey’s our own St Francis of Assisi; wounded animals and birds come to her door and she sends them back to the wild, restored. She told me Little Grace needed me and I needed her. Who was I to disagree?’

Leonora met his eyes and recognised in that moment how right it was when a wounded soul met another and both felt they had come home. ‘Well, she is fortunate to have found you.’ She inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fopling; goodbye, Little Grace.’

Twelfth Night arrived on the back of a storm. From midnight, the wind roared through the trees outside the Manor and rattled the ancient windows in their casements. The force of the air swirling round the roofs made the chimneys whistle, and the rain sent gobbets of soot splattering into the grates in the fireplaces. Leonora could not sleep. She had organised the party herself and in the depths of the night she ran the details through her mind: the food was cooked, the cellar full, she had bought up every beeswax candle from the local chandler; with Charlotte’s help the vases were overflowing with pussy willow and hellebore just coming into flower. Leonora had been particularly pleased to find wintersweet in the woods, its bare branches decorated with yellow waxy flowers, filling the air with its exotic heady scent. The bedrooms had been made ready for George Lockwood, Lord Dearlove, his sister Livia and her maid.

After such a wild night, the morning dawned rosy and clear, the early sun casting a calm pale light over the swirls of leaves and branches strewn across the park. George Lockwood had written that he would arrive early as he wished to catch up with Ned Fleming’s activities on the estate. Leonora dressed in her morning gown, newly trimmed with ribbons by Nanny P, and was just brushing out her long tawny hair to twist into a loose chignon when she heard Charlotte’s voice in the hall. She too was wearing one of her newly refurbished dresses and looked charming in pale primrose. They embraced. ‘The Manor looks so beautiful with all this greenery, everything sparkling in the sun.’

Leonora grasped a cup of coffee and a bun, and they went through to the drawing room and sat together on the music stool to run through a final practice of the compositions they would play. Deep in the John Field duet, both young women were startled to see the tall figure of George Lockwood looming in the doorway. He laughed at their expressions. ‘Forgive me, but Clegg seems to think the house is mine so he can leave me to come and go at will.’

Charlotte, in some excitement, exclaimed, ‘Mr Lockwood! It is good to see you.’

He strode into the room to take her hand and bow. ‘It is reward for my hellish journey to find you and Miss Appleby with sunlight in your hair, producing such sublime music.’

He reached out for Leonora’s hand too and she could not supress a laugh. ‘Mr Lockwood, you can leave your flowery London manners behind when you’re with us!’

Charlotte protested. ‘Leonora! I like Mr Lockwood’s mannerliness. It makes such a refreshing change from what we are used to.’

George Lockwood was amused himself. ‘If you think I’m overly mannerly, you wait until you meet my stepfather, Beau Beacham! He could charm a fortune from miser Daniel Dancer and a laugh from La Gioconda.’ Despite Mr Lockwood’s obvious admiration for the Beau, Leonora determined to dislike the man on sight, not least because he imposed his own Town tastes on his country-loving stepson. She looked him up and down and was disappointed that once again his large broad form was tightly buttoned into dandy clothes that made him look so uncomfortable.

‘Well, now my manners are lacking, Mr Lockwood. You must be hungry and tired. Can I offer you some refreshment?’ She moved towards the door.

‘No, thank you. I haven’t much time before I need to get ready for the evening’s jollities. I’ll change and grab some bread and cheese from Cook and then find Ned Fleming.’

‘When last here, you committed to sing a ballad for us tonight. I wondered if you have chosen one?’

‘What about ‘The Whitby Lad’? Or I could sing everyone’s old favourite, ‘Scarborough Fair’?’

Leonora thought for a moment. ‘The Whitby Lad’ had a rumbustious tune but the story of a young man’s deportation for theft rather lowered the spirits. ‘I think ‘Scarborough Fair’ would be best. It has such charm, and some of your audience might sing along.’

She and Charlotte went in search of the last candelabras and candlesticks to be found in the house, searching the pantry and laundry, and gathered them in the kitchen. After a quick polish they were filled with even more candles; the Manor would glow with myriad lights and look at its very best. Time was fleeing and they dashed their separate ways to dress for the evening’s entertainments.

Leonora washed and slipped into the new silver gauze evening dress for the first time since she had brought it home from Windsor. It felt so silky and cool, and it rustled when she walked. She had asked Milly to help and the girl stared at her mistress, her mouth open. ‘You look as beautiful as an angel, Miss Leonora!’ she said in her honest country way.

‘That’s very kind, Milly, but I think when you see her, you’ll find Miss Charlotte looks more the angel.’ As Milly plaited and coiled Leonora’s glossy chestnut hair, piling it on top of her head in a passable imitation of a classical goddess’s coiffure, Leonora looked at her own reflection in the looking glass with some pleasure and amazement.

The Mildmays were the first to arrive, exclaiming at the beauty of the house and its decorations. The fires were blazing and the hundreds of lit candles cast their soft light over faces and flowers, and added a flickering lustre to the piano-forte sitting in its central place in the drawing room. Mrs Mildmay hurried to the kitchen, keen to help Cook and Nanny P put the food ready for a buffet in the dining room. The Reverend manned the champagne until Jack Clegg could take over, once his duty at the front door was done.

Charlotte did indeed look like an angel in a finely stitched white gown overlaid with shell-pink gauze, her fair hair curled and soft round her face with tendrils falling to her shoulders and a twisted knot on her head, interlaced with ribbons. ‘You look lovely, Lottie.’ Leonora took her arm and led her through to where their new neighbours, Mrs Chetwode and her daughter were standing slightly apart by the window. Charlotte collected a glass of champagne for Mrs Chetwode and Mrs Priddy’s lemon and elderflower cordial for Miss Chetwode and herself.

George Lockwood, immaculate in dark evening coat and pale satin breeches, strolled over to talk to the women. His bluff kindness penetrated Miss Chetwode’s shyness and she smiled, a blush stealing up her pale cheeks. He then excused himself to offer his services to Leonora as a joint host.

There was a sudden stir as three glittering personages entered the hall, the men stripping off their gloves, top hats and travelling cloaks to hand them to Jack Clegg, who looked suitably impressed. With them was an imperious young woman, tall and stately and dressed in a striking apple-green evening dress, with a daring, low-cut neckline, the bodice scintillating with matching bugle beads. A green plume of feathers nodded from the complex construction of her glossy dark hair. Leonora came towards them, her hand out in greeting. ‘Lady Livia, how good of you to come.’

Her hand was taken in the lightest of grips and Livia Dearlove looked around the drawing room then down at Leonora from her greater height and murmured, ‘How charming,’ in a voice that did not sound charmed in the least. Just as Leonora was feeling the froideur seep up from her fingers, a young man with unruly brown hair and a sparkling expression pushed forward to grasp both her hands. ‘Miss Appleby! It is a treat to see you after so long.’ His genuine ebullience and pleasure at meeting her again made Leonora wonder if he was about to forget etiquette entirely and embrace her.

Lord Dearlove had always been an optimistic, enthusiastic energy who lifted her heart and made her laugh. She felt herself colour with delight at seeing him again and being reminded of happy times with her beloved. Rufus Dearlove turned to introduce Leonora to a lean-faced man, distinguished in his regimentals. ‘Captain Ormonde, may I introduce you to Miss Appleby. Miss Appleby, Guy Ormonde is a captain in the Light Dragoons.’ The stranger bowed deeply over her hand and as his narrow cynical eyes flickered over her face and down her person, his face broke into one of the most charming smiles she had ever seen. Leonora found it disconcerting to have such chilliness and warmth present in the same face.